Slow Burn
by Holly Wills
Summary: "It's not your fault," she murmured, her lips cracking into a wan smile. "I couldn't save him either." [one-shot, Post-328, InoShika]


His cigarette had long since gone out.

Shikamaru stared hard at the extinguished end, a charred dark brown against the grey of his surroundings. Pathetic. He couldn't even keep one lit long enough for it to matter. Cursing under his breath, he swiped at the spent stick and crushed it underfoot.

With trembling fingers, Shikamaru plucked another cigarette from Asuma's pack and inserted it between his lips. Carefully, he cupped a hand over his sensei's lighter and lit up. _One, two, three._ The flicker caught, and, drawing deeply, he let the smoke fill his lungs, before exhaling in slow, steady breaths.

The acrid flavor clawed at his throat, aching and raw and unfamiliar, but he kept it in. Asuma never coughed when he smoked, and Shikamaru wasn't going to. Not if he could help it.

In the distance, lightning flashed, followed by a crack of thunder. Five kilometers away, he estimated. The storm was brewing five kilometers away.

Not that it mattered, but he had to keep himself sane and thinking.

Shikamaru stood there for a while, taking in everything in detail – the forest, the overcast sky, the abandoned building. He committed it all to memory, for later, and all the while, he kept his cigarette burning.

He let his eyes wander down, and watched as the ground greedily soaked up the summer rain, along with his sensei's spilt blood and Hidan's crude drawing. Soon, there would be nothing left there. No traces that a battle had been fought. Nothing but mud and trampled grass.

But Shikamaru could still tell, in vivid detail, where Asuma fell, could pinpoint where the fatal blow had struck, could hear the manic laughter issuing from the bastard's mouth, could still see it happening before his mind's eye. Hell, he might as well be reliving it now.

"Shikamaru?"

Ino's voice was small, barely a whisper, and a fleeting thought remarked how this was odd for her. Such a loud, outgoing girl. Always shouting, demanding, raving. Most of the time, he didn't listen, but he was now, and he couldn't remember a time when she had been less than everything she was.

"Come inside." Her hand on his back was warm, familiar. "Raido-san says we'll have to wait it out."

Ino stepped in front of him when he didn't answer, her hand trailing up his back and over his shoulder. She let it linger there, her fingers drumming something lightly against his flak jacket, but it wasn't impatient or annoyed: only listless and lost.

Somehow, that was worse.

"Come inside," she repeated, in a voice so soft and saccharine it had to be fake. "They've got a fire going."

Her lips tilted upwards when he looked down at her, but Shikamaru had never seen her give him such a small, pretentious smile. Nor had she ever worn a blanker expression, her eyes a dull blue, blonde hair tangled and plastered on her face and neck. He couldn't be looking his best either, with the rain pouring in rivulets down his hair and soaking his clothes.

"It's cold out here," she added quietly. "And you're exhausted. You need to rest."

Ino's grip on his shoulder tightened, and something flickered in her eyes. _Please? Just come with me?_

Shikamaru couldn't tell – could hardly tell – whether he was reading her right, but he nodded and let her lead him away. She didn't comment on his cigarette, now drenched and limp in his mouth, as she pulled him inside the old, squat building.

The air was stale and musty, a testament to the age of its abandonment, but it was dry and, soon, warm. Ino sat him down, as close to the fire as possible, and settled beside him. Then, working quietly, she produced two towels from her supply scroll and handed him one, while she draped the other over herself.

For a long moment, the silence was complete. The fire crackled, the storm raged, and rainwater pooled beneath the two of them, but it hardly mattered. They were cold, but soon they won't be.

"Chouji and the others are searching the rest of the building," Ino broke in when it got too much for her. "They're hoping to capture the bounty hunter's accomplice before he escapes."

Shikamaru nodded distractedly, before slipping the damp cigarette off his lips. He had managed to smoke it halfway before it petered out – from the rain or his inability to keep it burning, he didn't know.

"He might have vital information regarding our quarry," she added, eyes trained on the fire. "We'll give him to Ibiki-san when we return. He'll talk. Don't worry."

Shikamaru continued staring at the object in his hand, hardly mindful of the iciness creeping into Ino's tone, or the curious glance she threw his way. He flipped the cigarette in slow, meditative circles in between his fingers – a quiet way of thinking, of remembering. He had to do something, or he would forget, in fear and trepidation.

And then it was gone.

He glanced down, dazed, wondering where his spent cigarette had disappeared to. It didn't fall on his lap, nor was it anywhere near him. Shikamaru turned to the fire, but it wasn't there either. Desperate for the smoke, he clutched at his vest pockets, patting for Asuma's crumpled pack, his fingers finding nothing but scrolls and needles. Things he didn't need. He grit his teeth; he could've sworn he had—

"Stop that."

Ino's broken plea reverberated in the empty chamber, and in the dim light, Shikamaru could make out the fresh tears pooling at the corners of her eyes, the stray raindrops resting at the tips of her eyelashes, the tell-tale courses on both of her cheeks. She was still drenched, looking like a lost nightingale caught in an unexpected shower, and she looked tired, more tired than she did minutes ago.

"Stop." She crushed something in her fist. "I hate seeing you like this."

Her fingers fell away, revealing the ashes of his cigarette, the dark staining her porcelain skin. Then she reached out, her other hand trailing gently down his cheek.

"It's not your fault," she murmured, her lips cracking into a wan smile. "I couldn't save him either."

There was sadness there, in her whispered confession, but there was guilt too. A lot of it. Shikamaru could hear it in her voice, sense it thrumming beneath her skin, soaking his shirt anew as she buried her face on his neck. Her sobs came erratically, wracking her lithe body with every painful breath, every wrenching heartbeat, and he held her.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her until she calmed, until her trembling ceased and her tears ran dry, and, still, he held her. He kissed her hair – her beautiful, golden hair – and tucked her head beneath his chin, like he used to do when she would fall against him, her body limp and lifeless as her mind traveled elsewhere. Shikamaru remembered how that used to scare him – she was so small and fragile.

"It's not your fault either," he said, his voice coming out hoarse and raw and honest. "It's not ours to carry. Asuma—"

"I know." Ino drew closer and wound her arms around his waist. " _I_ _know_."

She rested her head on his shoulder, and he laid his cheek against her forehead. They stayed like that for a long while, sharing warmth and everything else between them. She didn't have to talk, and he didn't have to think; it was careless abandon, but it hardly mattered, considering.

Ino was the first to stir, her eyes lifting slightly to meet his, her blue melding with the reflected flames. There was something flickering there, something different from before, and Shikamaru pulled her closer, suddenly eager not to let that fire burn out; he wasn't sure he could take it if it died.

And slowly, very slowly, Ino tilted her chin up and pressed a light, tentative kiss to his lips, testing waters, testing him. Her eyes gradually fell closed, revealing nothing to him, but her grip against the front of his jacket was strong, unwavering.

Carefully, he lifted his hands to cup her face, the feel of her bright and familiar in the bleakness of his thoughts and surroundings. Shikamaru moved his mouth against hers, giving her something back and taking even less, mimicking her actions, unhurried and selfless in the frantic, unforgiving pace of their lives.

It wasn't strange, but it wasn't right either. At the back of his mind, it screamed that it wasn't right. But Kami knew they needed it. They needed each other. Asuma would forgive them – of that Shikamaru was sure.

"We are going to be strong," Ino whispered quietly, fiercely, when she pulled away. "You and I."

Shikamaru searched for her hand in the gathering dark and clasped it tightly, the ashes of their sensei's cigarette digging against their joined palms.

"Yes, we are."

* * *

 _Author's Note: I took a bit of an unwanted/unexpected break from writing to deal with some inner demons, but I'm back (for now) and packing this bittersweet one-shot. I'm not sure where I meant to go with this; just that I've always wanted to write a (decent?) post-328 fic. I had to read Asuma's death arc a bunch of times for this, so… Cookie?_


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